


Forgive Me Father

by Bumblebeeholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Bearded John, Catholic Guilt, Forbidden Love, John "Three Continents" Watson, John Has a Beard, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Priest Kink, Rimming, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Smut, a bit - Freeform, beard rash, bottomlock, cassocks, he sees john and wants him, john loves the danger, priestlock, sad wanking, soldier john watson - referenced, some great smut to come, topJohn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumblebeeholmes/pseuds/Bumblebeeholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock (19) is a dropout from King's, living back at home when he's given a job working the local parish with one Father John, a priest with a past and an instant connection with his newest altar boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishaveforsherl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishaveforsherl/gifts).



> I blame Cami completely for encouraging me in this venture. Bless you, my child <3

It wasn’t often that anyone perplexed the likes of Sherlock Holmes. He was a young man with the reputation of having an intellect and wit sharp enough to match his angular cheekbones. Few people had met the nineteen year-old without coming face-to-face with his ‘unique’ manner. Unique was the way Mummy Holmes chose to describe her sons, Sherlock in particular [she was always much more protective of her youngest son, much to her eldest’s annoyance].

But being the youngest wasn’t without its own problems. The desire to help her son find his way in the world was what landed Sherlock with his current job assisting the local parish priest at the Catholic Church that his parents _insisted_ upon attending. God was about the last thing that Sherlock believed in, but he had long ago learned that appeasing his mother allowed him much more leniency for performing his beloved experiments at home. This proved to be exceedingly useful, given the microwave he had inadvertently caused to ignite, obviously through no fault of his own. The wrath of his mother had been much less severe, something Sherlock attributed to his spending so much time at Saint Vincent’s in his occupation as an altar boy.

Something that Sherlock never thought he would ever find himself doing was seeing to the ceremony of the Daily and Weekly Masses. If he was honest, there were certain aspects that he enjoyed about the job. It was simple enough with only a handful of recitations to memorise and actions to mirror. After all, they took less than ten minutes to commit to memory. Perhaps it was the aesthetic of the centuries-old church. But perhaps it was something else entirely separate of the tradition.

Perhaps it was the cobalt blue eyes of one Father John Watson. Maybe the deliciously full beard that he thoughtfully pulled on when he was in the middle of a homily during Mass. It could have even been the way his eyes seemed to stare into the very heart of Sherlock for what felt like hours at a time, though he was certain only seconds had passed.

Father John was newer to the area, much like Sherlock, and one of the younger faces in a village filled with mostly retirees. The priest had been assigned to watch over the parish two years after his discharge from the military, by Sherlock’s deductions and the handful of conversations he had overheard [that wasn’t cheating, it was being perceptive]. No more than three years, anyway.

Sherlock, more often than not, found himself watching [observing, cataloguing] the movements of the priest. His interactions, especially. Where he was open and charming with the females of the congregation, Father John seemed much more distant with the men. He considered it to be an attempt to adhere to the cultural norms of the sparsely populated area, until he also began to notice the way Father John spoke with him in particular. The same mannerisms the older man used with the women, the same casual smiles and open body language that could be seen as playful flirting were commonplace when he talked to Sherlock, though there was an air of reservation with the boy.

But those eyes never left Sherlock. Be he writing his homily while Sherlock was ironing the robes that were to be worn during the service, or bringing the Lectionary forward for the daily reading, Father John seemed to always be watching the boy with the same careful attention Sherlock used. As if he was deducing Sherlock’s movements [or, dare he say, enjoying them]. Sherlock started slowly by inviting the looks. If he felt the man’s eyes on him, he would ruffle a hand through his dark and unruly curls, bend to extinguish a particularly hard to reach candle, trace a hand down the front of his own plainer robes. He could practically _feel_ the desire from Father John, but every time he went to make eye contact, the priest would be seemingly busy, unnoticing.

Sherlock was clearly being ridiculous. This was a holy man who had taken vows of chastity and poverty, committing his life to the god he believed in. Still, it was hard to think of anything else when Father John’s attention was fixed on him. It made the boy feel as though he were the only person in the world. At least, the only one who mattered to John Watson.

“… I say, Sherlock.”

The young man blinked his eyes rapidly, coming back into the moment from his wandering thoughts.

“Yes, Father?”

“Something on your mind, my son?”

Sherlock panicked a bit inside, though he applauded himself for hiding it quite efficiently. _What the priest looked like underneath his cassock… blowjobs, rimming, sex in the privacy of a confessional…_

“Nothing more than usual,” he answered back as coolly as possible, taking in a breath and pretending to be engrossed with the cloth he was folding.

Father John’s eyes seemed amused for a moment, crinkling slightly at the corners on a face that had seen quite a lot of sun due to his time spent abroad in the desert. Sherlock caught a shine of appreciation as he stood across the room from the man. John thoughtfully smoothed his right cheek, pulling at the beard that seemed to always look so tantalisingly perfect. “I take it you enjoy folding the same corporal over and over again, then?” There was a lilt to his voice, and he licked his lips as he held the attention of Sherlock’s opaque blue eyes with his own darker ones.

Sherlock broke the stare after a few moments and looked down at the sizable stack of unfolded linens, muttering to himself below his breath. In a stroke of genius [luck], he smiled and passed it off as normal. “The creases, Father. Just ensuring they’re pristine for Mass. I know you appreciate my attention to detail.”

The priest nodded and smiled, watching the lines of Sherlock’s body carefully as he moved, the very essence of grace and precision. “I do, yes. And I must say you’re doing a fine job. You’re an essential part of my day-to-day routine.” In that moment, Sherlock could practically hear the quivering in his stomach.

A few noticeable seconds of pause. “Thank you, Father,” he managed to get out, and he could feel the maddening heat invading his normally pale cheeks. “Any job worth doing, yes?”

“You’re absolutely right, as usual.”

In past, this sort of exchange would have ended here with both men going about their own business, but Father John seemed to have a different plan for the day.

“You don’t talk about yourself very much,” he said, turning his back to Sherlock as he hung a spare cassock neatly in his closet. John was nothing it not a man of precision, and he fastened every button before ensuring it rested on the hanger exactly two inches from the identical robe beside.

Sherlock had never found such a simple movement so fascinating.

“There’s not much to tell,” he offered simply, reminding himself to set aside the finished cloth and start on a new one.

“That’s obviously not true,” the holy man chided, and shook his head fondly as he turned to face Sherlock once more. “For one, someone like you should definitely be in the city. And that’s aside from your accent,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “What are you doing in a tiny village like this?” Sherlock couldn’t help but notice the way the finely starched fabric of his cassock did nothing to hide the muscle definition in his torso.

“Is this your way of telling me I don’t belong?” Sherlock asked with a slight playfulness in his eyes, though he dipped them back down on the task at hand.

“Not at all. I just wanted you to know I don’t think you’re alone in that fact.”

Sherlock’s eyes raised immediately to find the priest’s gaze upon him. There was a markedly different sort of light behind those blue eyes today. John lifted a hand to cup his cheek, licking his lips as they surveyed the sight before him. Sherlock assumed he now knew what it was like to be the prey during a hunt.

And he wasn’t about to say he didn’t enjoy it.

“A dropout from King’s College living with his parents is far less exciting than the stories I hear of the hero soldier who returned home from Afghanistan to serve his beloved Church.”

At the mention of ‘hero’, Father John’s jaw set into a grimace, and he rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. “I’m about the furthest thing from a hero you could ever find,” he retorted. “I hate that bloody word.”

A chuckle of surprise erupted from Sherlock’s mouth at the soft curse coming from a priest, of all people, and he nodded his head gently. “Regardless,” he said in a softer tone of voice, wanting to see the pleased look return to John’s face. “You’re seen far more of the world than me, and have far more reason to speak on the matter.” He smiled, looking back to the table where his handiwork lay. “I’d like to hear about it sometime.”

 _Dear god._ Sherlock cursed himself inwardly. What was he doing? _Flirting_ with a priest? The words had tumbled out so easily in a way that surprised him immensely. It wasn’t as though the man would—

“Why don’t you come by the rectory after Mass on Friday for tea, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Sherlock’s wandering mind stilled in that very moment and a half-startled look crossed his face. The priest invited him to his living quarters. Where he ate, read, slept… _did he do anything more than sleep in that bed?_

At least five seconds of silence passed with Father John looking expectantly at the altar boy. All he could think was how remarkable his eyes were, the loveliest shade of blue [green?] he had ever seen. And he wanted to admire them at a much closer distance.

 Finally, Sherlock blinked back to reality, and he gave a quick nod. In a voice that was far more confident than he was feeling, he made and maintained eye contact with Father John before answering. “Tea would be amenable.”

~~~

“On your knees, my son.”

Father John’s voice was a raspy whisper in the dark, picturing the figure of Sherlock being completely subservient to him. He hadn’t expected to be so bold earlier in the day [some might say stupid]. But even more surprising was the confidence that Sherlock exuded when he agreed to come to the priest’s quarters. There was something mischievous in his grin. Something more…

His hand was working his swollen cock fervently under the concealment of his duvet, the slick sounds of precome mixing with the lube coating his rough palm [thank god for online shopping]. In his mind’s eye, Sherlock was staring at him with those eyes, not breaking contact once as he swallowed down every inch of the priest’s hardness between his plush lips. Those eyes that saw everything. Those eyes that seemed to burn holes through his church garments every single day.

A strangled gasp left the priest’s lips while he began to twist his wrist, pulling and teasing at his exposed glans. He was aching for more, a desperate man in search of the most sinful of touches. Those carnal delights he had enjoyed as a younger man were far behind him now. He was a man of the cloth, a man who promised himself to serve a higher power.

And yet here he was, biting his already bruised lower lip and letting out soft grunting noises as he imagined the debauched look on his altar boy’s face while he licked and suckled at John’s needy prick.

“ _Sherlock_ …” he groaned, feeling his heavy bollocks tightening up against his body just moments before spurted his release, coating his abdomen in thick pulses of come. His vision was lost in a sea of desire and he panted through his orgasm, slowly feeling himself come back into his own body. Once his heart rate steadied and cock had started to soften, he looked down to the mess on his torso, cheeks flushing with shame while he wiped himself off with the flannel he had purposefully brought to bed with him.

_Did that make this more shameful?_

He rose and washed his hands in the modest washroom adjoined to his tiny bedroom, and when he entered the room once more, the first thing he came face to face with was the sight of the crucifix hung above his bed. A new guilt overwhelmed him, and he reached for his usual pyjamas, covering his nakedness quickly and opting to kneel next to his bed rather than fall asleep like his body was begging him to do.

He had given into his bodily urges enough for that night.

Father John crossed himself and brought his elbows to the side of the mussed bed, keeping his head bowed and resting his bearded chin on his interlocked fingers as he began, asking for strength to overcome the seemingly insurmountable need for Sherlock Holmes. It was a test, a cross he needed to bear, and he sighed as he began his nightly recitation of the rosary.

“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the next morning after Father John's invitation to Sherlock and each man is buzzing with anticipation. Sherlock is feeling impulsive and wanting to test out just what Father John's intentions are. But is John even interested in pursuing anything, given the danger involved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for being so late, guys. But I do want to say thank you so much to all of you for liking and commenting on my fic - the response was more than I anticipated. Please feel free to let me know what you all think of this new chapter. I can't wait to write more! <3

One day. Technically it had been one restless night. But it had only been one bloody day. Sherlock couldn’t believe the wretched hands on the clock, mercilessly ticking at a rate slower than had ever seemed possible. Father John, deliciously rugged, bearded, sapphire-eyed Father John, had invited him to tea that weekend. Still _three days_ away.

Of course the priest couldn’t have invited him to his rectory this evening. Surely that would have been too soon. That would have made things far too easy on the young genius. Now all there was to do was wait and pretend as if he weren’t doing so. Wait and wonder. Of all the things that Sherlock had taught himself (a veritable library of knowledge), patience was not a skill that Sherlock Holmes had ever had time to learn.

And he was well aware of the irony.

Sherlock arrived fifteen minutes early for his shift at the church the next day. Not unheard of, but eager. Definitely too eager, given the delighted smile on Father John’s face.

“You’re early lad,” he grinned from his seated position in the kitchen located in the basement of the ancient church. There was a soft light filtering in through the high windows on two of the walls that brought out the flecks of grey in the older man’s hair, proving to be inordinately distracting to Sherlock. Father John put his morning paper down, rising and crossing the floor to the counter opposite of the young man to pour a cup of coffee. “How was your night?”

A seemingly harmless question, but given where the priest’s mind had wandered while he was alone under his duvet, there was no such thing as innocence.

“Fine, Father,” Sherlock lied. In all honesty, he had been tossing and turning, replaying their exchange obsessively in his mind into the wee hours of the night. Imagining what the priest’s eyes had looked like with that boyish gleam, even that smirk that had caught the altar boy off-guard. “And yours?” he asked, taking the mug of coffee John had offered him.

“No complaints.” Father John’s answer was quick, and the look from Sherlock was enough to tell the priest that it came off a bit more forced than he meant it to sound. Not to mention the way the man seemed to favour one of his knees that morning.

“You seem to have had a busy night,” Sherlock answered, clear irises sweeping over the older man’s body. It was alarming how well he looked in something as simple as a pair of black trousers with a matching black button-up shirt. Not to mention that white collar that was so indescribably alluring…

John’s eyes went wide for a moment, letting his own mug hit the counter harder than he meant to, just before topping off his drink.

“Mm?” The soft, non-committal tone was all he managed while he poured, efficiently hiding the guilty look on his face. Or so he thought.

“Your knee, Father.” Sherlock smirked from behind his mug, noting the obvious change in body language. He’d definitely struck a nerve there. “I assume you were up late doing your prayers.” It was an attempt at feigning innocence, sure, but as the priest turned, he saw the look of playfulness that Sherlock was trying very hard to hide.

When he caught Sherlock’s eye, Father John felt a spike of excitement coiling in the base of his spine that he hadn’t felt in years. It seemed too good to be true that Sherlock was being so flirtatious, taking the lead in their dangerous little game. Too good to be true, yes, but also something so devilish that John knew he would be absolutely powerless to deny.

The priest turned his body, facing Sherlock fully before responding to his obvious playfulness. “Even priests have transgressions to atone for,” he disputed, leaning his hip against the counter and taking in the sight of Sherlock. The young man was a vision first thing in the morning – curls still tight from the water of his earlier shower, the faintest scent of lavender filling the air as he moved to fetch more cream for his coffee.

“I suppose they do,” Sherlock answered, drawing his eyes from the holy man to carefully splash a bit of cream into the dark coffee. “You like it strong,” he chuckled, mixing the hot drink until he reached the desired colour.

John nodded. “Guess I’m used to it that way from my army days. That was strong enough to put hair on your chest.”

Sherlock laughed, a warm and inviting sound filling the room. “I certainly hope not.” A hand came to his own lean chest, dragging feather-light touches over his collarbone through the fabric of his teeshirt. The movement did its job to draw Father John’s eye to the area, and a subconscious flick of the tongue over his lower lip gave Sherlock all he needed to know of the man’s thought process. “Not that I mind hair on other men,” the boy continued. Sherlock’s smirk was obvious, and it prompted a soft flush on the priest’s cheeks. “In fact, it’s quite attractive.” Once again, Sherlock’s eyes were roaming, settling on the hairs on John’s forearms before raising to the man’s eyes, drinking in the sight of that perfect beard. All the while imagining what it would feel like on his skin.

At this juncture, if anyone else were in the church, Father John would have been completely oblivious. The unmistakable stare coming from Sherlock was enough to make him forget about the world around him. The topic alone was scandalous. Sinful. In just a few words and glances, Sherlock had confirmed everything that the older man had only assumed. Feared.

Hoped.

And Father John Watson had a very fine like to walk as he proceeded. Because _of course_ he would proceed. This was just his type of situation. This was just the sort of thing that landed him in Afghanistan in the middle of a warzone in the first place.

“This sounds more the type of statement that should be discussed within a confessional, my son.” He turned away and sat back at the flimsy table, bringing his mug with him and practicing his calm appearance.

“I suppose it would be more appropriate there, if I were in any way ashamed of the fact,” Sherlock countered, watching the strong lines of John’s body move. Every shift and every motion was deliberate, something that was in no way surprising of this man who clearly had a lot of experience in the ways of flirting. Sherlock had long ago deduced the controlling nature of John. But now the altar boy wondered how far the priest’s desire to control spread into his daily life. His personal life.

His sexual life?

Almost instinctually, Sherlock found himself following the priest to the table, taking the seat closest to John. For Sherlock, it was an example he wished to set, and experiment of sorts to test John’s observation skills. For John, it was a display of obedience and affection, however small. He smiled at Sherlock, looking very pleased that the boy would sit with him so willingly.

At the positive reaction, Sherlock slid his chair slightly closer just before crossing his long legs to the side. John couldn’t hide the grin from his face, even if he wanted to.

“It seems that you are indeed without shame,” John said, eyes following up the expanse of shapely legs before him. “You’re right. There’s no use in asking forgiveness for something you haven’t any intention of stopping.”

A quirk of Sherlock’s lip played on his face, and he leaned forward with breath smelling of fresh coffee and menthol from a cigarette smoked on the way to church. “That’s hardly a holy sentiment to espouse. Isn’t there one of those Canon Law… things?” His fingers waved through the air as he searched for a descriptive word that seemed to escape him for the moment.

In a response to the altar boy’s movements, Father John rested on his elbows only inches away from Sherlock’s arms. “Are you telling me that you don’t ever break the rules, my son?”

“No, Father,” Sherlock retorted. “Quite the opposite.”

As Sherlock searched the priest’s face, he documented every movement, every reaction, until he took a breath and reached out to set one of his delicate hands on top of the priest’s. His heart was hammering in his ears, and he swore he saw a look of contentment appear on John’s face. Not to mention the fact that neither one of them pulled their hands away.

And in this moment, Father John had never before been so eager to accept the fate of his own damnation. His eyes couldn’t stop darting between Sherlock’s lips – those perfect, plump, supple lips – and his cool, grey eyes that seemingly bored into his very soul. John wetted his own lips and drug his thumb across the back of Sherlock’s palm, imagining what those lips might taste like.

“Good morning, Father!”

The cheery sound of the parish secretary flooded the small room, causing John to jump and retract his hand, a movement that he instantly regretted since the action brought attention to his demeanor. Mrs Hudson seemed to take notice immediately, stopping and coming over to where the priest now sat back in his seat. “Bit jumpy this morning,” she commented, putting a mothering hand on his shoulder.

“Coffee’s a bit strong this morning, Mrs H. Even for me,” he smiled back at her, glad that she wouldn’t be able to see the way his heart hammered in his chest.

“You’ll do well to use extra cream and sugar this morning, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock added coolly, rising from his seat in a graceful manner that John couldn’t help but envy.

The altar boy headed to the counter and poured her a cuppa that would undoubtedly be to her liking, handing it over with a warm smile and the confidence that suggested he wasn’t just toying with the affections of a man of the cloth.

“Sherlock, bless you,” Mrs Hudson beamed, reaching up to cradle his cheek with her hand before taking the mug and raising it to her lips. She smiled, eyes flashing up to the young man. “I’m not sure how you always know how to make a proper cuppa, but I’ll not question it too much,” she chuckled. “Isn’t he a blessing, Father?”

John, for his part, had returned to his normal state, taking to reading his paper once more and sipping his coffee. “A godsend,” he agreed aloud.

_Or a temptation sent to test me_ , he wondered to himself.

~~~

Father John was careful to not be too close to Sherlock over the following day. The stare of surprise from Mrs Hudson when she burst into the kitchen followed him throughout his work, a constant reminder of how closely he had come to being caught in a very dangerous situation. He was reminded particularly strongly every time he was close to Sherlock, a guilty feeling in his gut telling him to stop his actions immediately.

So the priest was conservative in his approach, no longer participating in the same joking that the two had grown accustomed to. John found it difficult, sure. But Sherlock found it to be the most maddening day of work he had ever endured.

The attention was gone. The validation. The playful smirks coupled with the winks and stares that used to happen every time he passed the priest’s eye line.

In the morning, the boy was able to ignore it. Maybe John was just feeling off that day. But by the time the last Mass of the day had rolled around, Sherlock’s skin was crawling with discomfort. He was far less graceful in his movements, far more clunky. Some to do with the frustration boiling inside of him, but it had mostly to do with the very fact that Father John would _at least_ look in his direction when a sound carried due to a dropped dish or chalice. It was something that Sherlock did at home around his mummy when he was in dire need of attention, not caring if it was positive or negative thanks to his tendency (need) to pursue attention.

After Mass finished and the chapel had been swept and cleaned for the next day, Sherlock was on the altar in the darkened room, closing up the cupboards and double checking that the tabernacle had been properly locked for the night. He’d had enough of this day, had enough of the way John had been purposefully ignoring him. He huffed loudly when he heard the sound of the backdoor opening and closing at the back of the church.

That was it. Not even a ‘goodnight’ from the priest. Sherlock took a step back from the altar, staring up with disdain at the oversized crucifix that adorned the space. Where many people seemed to find comfort in its presence, Sherlock found only antagonisation. He cursed himself inwardly for even thinking he could flirt with the priest, let alone touch him or have some sort of a relationship with him. He had lowered his defenses and let some man, a bloody _holy_ _man_ , awaken excitement within him that he hadn’t felt since secondary school. After he had promised himself never to be so foolish or so weak again.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he spat, flipping around in disgust and turning his back to the judging gaze of the statue. In doing so, he ran smack into the priest’s chest, the man looking just as startled as the altar boy.

“Careful,” John cautioned, hands raising up to hold Sherlock’s slender arms to stop him from toppling over completely. Sherlock’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment and indignation, not wanting to rely on the older man for anything.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, eyes lowering as he righted himself.

“And that’s the reason you swore at the cross?” John wasn’t about to let Sherlock explain away his frustration with a flimsy assurance.

Sherlock looked into Father John’s eyes, affronted that he would even mention the minor transgression given the day they had just had together. “It slipped out,” he said coldly. “Won’t happen again, Father.” The altar boy’s eyes seemed to be scanning everywhere - over the priest’s face, over the dimly lit chapel filled with only candlelight and the last rays of the setting sun streaming in through stained glass windows. He would be so happy if not for the sudden change in dynamic between him and John but here he was, embarrassed and confused.

Father John considered himself fairly good at reading reactions, and right now in Sherlock he saw nothing but a man trying to escape. From what, he wasn’t sure, but John refused to be the one that Sherlock needed escaping _from_. He took a step back, giving the young man a wide berth.

“See that it doesn’t happen. If Mrs H heard you blaspheming like this, she’d probably have some very choice words for you, too. It’s a good thing she just left.” He chuckled a bit, an attempt to hide the sadness that was ever-present in his eyes. But Sherlock could see through it, and just the smile alone was enough to settle the younger man, if only a bit. This was the old John, the one he had begun to admire and enjoy.

After a few blinks and awkward silence, Sherlock was unable to hold his tongue any longer. “Why have you been ignoring me today?” he blurted, the surprise on his face matching John’s. He definitely hadn’t meant to ask such a thing so directly.

John licked his lips and looked down at the ground between them. The faded maroon carpet somehow held more interest for John than the man in front of him. At least that was what he wanted Sherlock to think.

“Needed to stay on task,” he answered, putting his hands in his pockets. It was technically the truth, though it denied a large portion of his feelings. He was torn in an inner war and wondering how much of his fascination was due to the danger of the situation or to his attraction to Sherlock himself. But while he looked at the flush on the young man’s cheeks, the desperate searching for answers on every inch of his face, John was absolutely in awe. Sherlock looked like an angel in this darkened hour, the light making his unruly curls glow in a frame around his pale face. His lips were slightly parted, and after a moment, John felt the boy’s opaque eyes on his mouth as he nervously flicked his tongue out, though he tried to hide the action by raising his hand to smooth down the coarse hairs of his beard.

At the movement, Sherlock’s glorious lips formed a thin line and he scrunched the bridge of his nose in a way that reminded John of a rabbit. Great. As if he needed to find more reasons to adore this young man.

Given the look on Sherlock’s face, Father John had expected an argument, a witty retort that Sherlock Holmes was famous for. But none came.

Instead, there was silence. The type that made John wonder if maybe he should repeat himself. If he was honest, it was a bit spooky to see the way everything and nothing was registering in Sherlock’s eyes.

The priest decided to open his mouth, speaking first to question Sherlock when the young man suddenly lurched forward and captured John’s lips in a hungry kiss. It was shattering, the eager way Sherlock’s lips slid over John’s, the way his tongue beautifully caressed John’s bottom lip as a way of asking for an invitation inside. He needed to know. It was now or never, and Sherlock was much too impulsive to want to wait until Friday to find out the Father’s true feelings.

But Father John didn’t kiss him back.

Sherlock deflated, immediately moving back with a mortified look on his face. How had he been so wrong? Surely all the signs were there… unless he had imagined them. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at the priest, his eyes searching the ground to try and will away the embarrassed tears that were forming in his eyes. The priest hadn’t even _moved_. He hadn’t spoken a word. John stood still, frozen in a way that he hadn’t done since he was in his last unforgiving firefight in Afghanistan.

“I… Apologies,” Sherlock finally gasped out. The young man crossed his arms with his head hung in a sullen pout that he’d not exhibited since he was reprimanded by his mother as a nine year old. “I should go.”  His movements were quick and jerking as he pushed past the priest on his way out as quickly as he could move. Sherlock’s mind was already racing, thinking that he’d have to quit his job as soon as possible while also offering up some excuse to his family. It would no doubt be difficult, given how they saw the way it had a positive effect on his life thus far. His thoughts were splintering into a hundred different scenarios before he felt a strong hand on his bicep.

“Wait,” came John’s gentle voice. “Look at me.”

Sherlock didn’t turn to face him, _couldn’t_ turn to face him. Surely he could lose all semblance of control if he looked into those stormy blue eyes.

“Please,” the priest whispered. But when Sherlock still wouldn’t turn, Father John took it upon himself to cross the short distance, standing in front of the young man once more. He wanted to see those eyes, _really_ see them, but Sherlock’s humiliation kept them no higher than the level of their knees.

Sherlock flinched only slightly when John raised his hand to rest underneath his chin, tilting his head up to properly look at him. Part of the altar boy expected to be reprimanded, shamed for his impulsivity. But when Sherlock’s eyes finally lifted, he saw the face of a man pleading for clarification. Assurance. Father John’s eyes were full and open, dancing over the angular features of the young man in front of him. He was searching for words and coming up completely empty.

It wasn’t until he noticed the confusion in Sherlock’s eyes that he realised how long they had been wordlessly standing there. The priest’s eyes widened, licking his lips and clearing his throat. And then it came.

In a rush of abandon, he gave into his urges and leaned in to return the kiss that Sherlock had offered. His lips caressed the young man’s in a show of affection mixed with apology. They stood, two separate bodies with lips pressing just delicately enough for them to feel each other’s presence.

But when Sherlock hummed against John’s lips, the older man was taken over. His hands slid around Sherlock’s trim body and pulled him in closely with one searching hand while the other tangled in his raven curls. The priest’s lips had become hungry, asking for entrance into the younger man’s mouth.

Sherlock was all too willing to allow it. He parted his lips and teasingly licked his tongue over John’s, feeling a current of electricity spark in the pit of his stomach. His hand mirrored John’s and touched the side of his face, dragging his fingers through his full beard. When a moan came from Father John, Sherlock returned it in kind, kissing him eagerly and absolutely loving the friction from John’s facial hair as it turned his pale lips a bright red colour.

They broke after what could have been five minutes, but it was impossible to know as neither man was counting anything beyond the heartbeats pounding in their ears.

Father John’s eyes drank in the sight of Sherlock, and as the altar boy gazed at him, he could practically see into the man’s mind, envisioning the two of them twisted together in a mix of sweat and need, begging for release that could only be found in each other.

“Tomorrow,” the priest breathed, cupping Sherlock’s face and tracing over his cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “Mrs H is leaving for the weekend to visit her sister.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, though his heart dropped at the thought of leaving the man’s warm embrace. After one glance to their surroundings, he sighed, knowing that it was for the best to wait. “Tomorrow.”

With one last peck to the priest’s lips, he scurried off through the dark chapel, not allowing himself to look back for fear that he would change his mind and go running back to the Father’s side.

When the older man heard the latch of the door closing behind Sherlock, he sighed, hands going back in his pockets as he looked guilty around the altar. He couldn’t bring his gaze up to look at the crucifix on the wall above him. For years after the war, the Church had been the once place that he could come to in search of peace, but now it felt starkly different. Rather than loving and full, it felt cold and judgmental. Before he had craved the companionship of the Holy Spirit in these walls. Now all he craved was the warmth he felt from Sherlock.

He shook his head, trying to imagine everything but the way Sherlock felt in his arms. But he was unable to see anything beyond the encounter he had only dreamed about with the young man. He stupidly chose that moment to look up at the crucifix and see the look of contempt coming down, filling him with frustration and shame. He knew that he’d need at least another five rosaries that night on knees that already plagued him with stiffness.

“Fuck.”


End file.
